Chapter Text
It was quiet in the chamber.
The air that was once hot with breath and reeking of copper and sweat had long since been cleansed by the sterile environment. The only evidence that remained was the dark red stain that covered the platform, dried blood forming imperfections in the smooth metal surface. The smallest flicker of light from one of the observation rooms barely cast any light into the pitch-blackness beyond the thick glass windows, illuminating smooth, white walls that loomed from all angles, like a monolithic hospital.
No, not a hospital. That would imply that people were sent here with the intention of being kept alive. No, being kept alive in this place was the cruelest of fates, the kind of punishment that only existed in the Devil’s wet dreams.
It was quiet in the chamber.
It was also cold. And dark. And completely empty.
Well, almost empty.
The corpse on the platform was definitely and undoubtedly dead, the monitors proclaimed that hours ago. The body had been mangled beyond recognition, the only distinguishable feature being a head of long, black hair and two hollow brown eyes that stared at nothing, unblinking and clouded. Despite the mess that had been made of the hollow body, it smelled of flowers, the reek of a rotting corpse strangely absent.
The high pitched drone of a flatlining heart only further hammered in the corpse's dormancy.
The staff had not bothered to collect the body when it met its end, some even breathing a sigh of relief when the heart monitor recorded the pulse dropping to zero hours prior. The death of this subject always promised the end of a shift and a good night’s sleep, so equipment was cleaned, reports were logged and stored to be sent in by the designated deadlines, bags were packed, and the last ones out of the rooms would flick off the lights as they all bid each other farewell until the next shift, hurrying away to enjoy the moments of free time they had left.
Death in the Lower Decks meant progress.
It had been twenty hours since the corpse had previously shown signs of life, and the window of time grew longer each day, the body resistant to all forms of resuscitation, but this time was already slowly ticking down to be its final. Even now, in the dim light cast down into the main chamber, one would be able to see the glistening within the ghastly wounds as the flesh started to pulse.
And then the corpse moved.
As if being shaped with expert hands, flesh and tissue wove back together, organs blooming from the residuals like flowers as ivory bones snapped and cracked into formation, the jagged edges sealing over to form thin indents where they sustained damage. Dark brown skin spread over scrawny limbs and a bony, flat chest, a tiny jaw with sharp teeth suddenly flexing as the new body took a deep, ragged breath through newly-formed lungs, pale threads forming a dirty, thin hospital gown to provide dignity to the malnourished body underneath. Ribs extended and contracted with each gasp, fingers pressing against the floor as two brown eyes suddenly sparked with life.
The woman, appearing to be at most thirty, jerked upright with a sharp gasp. Nerves snapped on like lights, signals shooting up into a reformed brain, the old memory storages coming back online and flooding her with crashing waves of stimuli. Her back arched as sensation came back to life, mouth opening and closing in deep, raspy breaths as she rode out the overwhelming waves of an entire life compressed into a few seconds, the memories of her flesh and her mind clashing in an explosion of physical and mental stimulus.
The former corpse gasped one more time, then went limp, staring up into the darkness above her as she slowly breathed. Her throat felt like it was lined with shards of glass and the nasty taste of old blood lingered on her tongue, and she quickly felt herself down. Her hands found nothing but flesh under the thin fabric of her gown, all intact and devoid of grabbing hands, even if the sensations remained.
Aster. The name flashed through her mind, an echo of many voices. Aster. Aster Aster.
The girl had no real name, had never had a name, but she had to be called something back then, so habit always brought her back to it. And so, “Aster” was what she called herself, because it was shorter than what people called her now.
The last thing she remembered was the hungry crowd breaking into the chamber, the guards simply standing aside and allowing them through, the catwalk extending towards her, bridging the safety gap between her and the dozens of hungry mouths. They waited, mouths watering, hands flexing as if already imagining her flesh coming away in them, and they rushed her, some even tumbling off the catwalk as they jostled and shoved their way to her. They descended upon her with the fever of the masses after a great plague, eating her, ripping into her like she was the last feast on Earth, and the people in the observation decks merely watched as if it was some kind of show.
And then Aster was back in reality, no longer eaten, alive and aching and so, so tired. She had been tired for a while, if she was being completely honest with herself.
With a shaky hand, she reached up to touch her chest, thin fingers tracing the pale scar that ran down from her collarbone to just below her stomach like a bolt of lightning. Identical ones wrapped around her wrists and ankles, obscured by the thick shackles that limited her range to a meter at best, and a fresh one had formed around her neck, burned into her flesh by the shock collar that clung uncomfortably to her skin.
Kneeling between the canisters, she listened as the blood dripped down from the ports that connected to the tubes inserted into her back, the dark red fluid colored black in the absence of light. The steady tempo matched her pulse, a slow, steady beat like a song for slow dancing.
Dancing. Aster remembered dancing. How long had it been since she had last danced?
There was a stirring within her flesh, within her mind, like something was crawling in through her open wounds and resuming its nesting within her core. The shifting roots spread, sinking their barbed tendrils into the very fabric of her being, a pain not within her flesh or even her soul, but her very essence. This had been a common occurrence for many years now, but that did not make it any less unpleasant to deal with. But Aster had become quite skilled in the art of dealing with it, so she simply closed her eyes and waited for what was to come.
And eventually, as the invisible intrusion continued to re-root itself in her, the House made itself known.
The white paint stood out in stark contrast to the heavy shadows that surrounded it, as though it was bathed in its own invisible spotlight. In the silence of the chamber, she could hear the deep, slow breathing that filled the air with the stench of fetid breath and rotting meat. Slow like a predator, its roots slithered in from the deep shadows surrounding her, pulsing veins as thick as her thumb crawling along the floor and down into the pit surrounding the platform, and then up again over its edges, moving in to touch her.
Turning onto her side, Aster curled up as much as the chains allowed her, the chill of her limbs unable to even mimic the warmth of another’s touch. Her own body never failed to remind her of the ever-present exhaustion, and there is no familiar company to sap the heaviness in her limbs and the gnawing at her insides away.
They are going to eat you. It was the truth that hung in the sterile air she breathed, written on the walls in the faded ghosts of bloodstains, hissed out from the vents and cracks in the floor. Urbanshade was a master of lies, but they could not bury the truth that shone through the veneer of false kindness and mercy.
They are going to eat you alive.
A wet, throbbing squelch echoed through the soundproofed chamber as deep crimson lines spread and criss-crossed over the walls, pulsing and shifting wetly as they dug into the sound-proofed tiles. Hundreds of eyes burst from boils in the smooth walls to leer down at her, sporting every color and even colors not known to humans, with round pupils and horizontal pupils and slit pupils, all red and bloodshot with conjunctivitis.
There was hunger in the depths, and there was hunger here, behind masks of corporate professionalism and white lab coats and uniforms and blunt teeth. There was hunger and hatred and desire, all for her and nothing else. She knew she should have run, fought, clawed her way towards survival even with broken limbs and bloodied fingers. That was what true prey would have done in this situation. It was a base instinct to fear death.
But Aster did not fight, and she did not run. She was too tired to run, and she knew she had never been strong enough to fight. All she could do was watch, heart in her throat, as the room around her spiraled and bled and blended into a fetid canvas of rot and flesh that reached for her with invisible hungry hands. The lines between reality and her own mind blurred together, but the tendril that crept up her leg felt real enough.
“Z-777-7, stand ready for extraction.”
Rust red pulsed in the coronas of her vision. It spread across the walls like a slime mold, fleshy roots branching off and fusing back together in dark, coagulated webs, snaking over the platform and over her arms and legs. A deep, resonant pulse rumbled up through the surface of the platform, the sound of a massive heart beating. Deep below, something beckoned, and she felt the overwhelming urge to respond in kind.
“That is an order. Stand up.”
She couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in. Tears in the flesh split in sprays of gore to reveal mouths full of yellowed teeth. The tendrils were crawling up the platform now, reaching for her, they were touching her, they were on top of her, they were going to rip her open again, they were–
“I said, STAND!”
Aster was thrown out of the House’s illusion with a violent jolt to her nerves, the harsh crackle of electricity spreading out from her neck and down into her body, making the newly-formed nerves scream with pain. She choked on her own bile, movements devolving into feeble spasms as the aftershocks shot through her muscles.
“Stand ready for extraction,” the guardsman said again, switching to a mask of indifference as Aster turned to look up at him. “That is direct orders from the Lead Doctor.”
She was back in the chamber, the normal chamber, and the doors had opened, the sterile white lights flipping on. Shadows moved behind the windows, and she could hear faint voices beyond the boundary of the massive airtight doors.
It took even more effort, but she somehow managed to push herself up into a kneeling position, keeping her head low as the guards roughly yanked the needles from her back, paying no mind to the blood that leaked from the puncture wounds left behind. They undid her chains next, the heavy weights dropping from her limbs, and she quietly exhaled through her nose as they all immediately trained their guns on her. One of the soldiers hesitantly approached with a muzzle, and when he hesitated, she could immediately discern that he was a new recruit. The Lower Decks did not get those often.
“Hurry up, Carters,” one of the older soldiers said sternly, “Dr. Caro is already in a mood, and the last thing any of us want is for him to take it out on us, too. Just muzzle the subject, it doesn’t fight back anymore.”
“But—"
“You’re here to do a job, not complain.” The older guardsman stomped his foot impatiently and the younger guardsman jumped slightly. “Hurry up.”
Aster stared aimlessly, looking quite the opposite of threatening, and the soldier stared back through his helmet, and then suddenly he rushed her and nearly knocked her backwards as he slammed the muzzle down in her face, the mechanism locking around her head and securing her mouth. Pain flared in the bridge of her nose, but she couldn’t exactly say that. Not that anyone would have listened, anyway.
They cuffed her next, leaving her ankles with enough space to power-walk as the guards herded her out of the chamber at gunpoint, one smacking her between her shoulder blades to keep her moving.
As they walked through the halls, which were already beginning to fill with staff, a group of guards passed by, escorting a young woman also dressed in a ratty hospital gown that matched Aster’s. She appeared to be younger despite being taller, thin with messy brown hair cut through with thick streaks of white, and her bright blue eyes bore a ring of bright sky around the pupil. Her steps were uneven, knees threatening to buckle with every movement, and the smell of dirty blood rose from the bandages on her arms and neck.
The two paused to look at each other, curious and feeling a strange connection between them, and then the guard behind the girl smacked her between the shoulders with their gun, nearly sending her tumbling onto the floor. Aster continued to watch as she moved, and then the girl and her escorts turned a corner, and they were gone.
Everything was meat.
The room was meat. The eyes ceaselessly watched her, unblinking and eager. Something was breathing hot and heavy, turning the cold air hot and muggy as condensation settled on her skin. Jagged, yellow teeth shone out from split gash lips, sending waves of drool down onto her face.
It’s not real, she thought, as though that had ever banished the visions that plagued her, It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.
A tongue, slimy and fleshy like a de-scaled python, slid out from one of the gnashing, lipless maws to drag up the side of her cheek, tasting the sweat and blood that dripped down her chin. In the corners of her vision, black tendrils, shiny and slick like a slime mold, crawled over the edges of the table, spreading their tar-like appendages over her arms and up the sides of her face.
It’s not real.
She felt her heart pulse in broken ribs, on and off again as it was ripped from her and bloomed again. Bones snapped, the stab to the senses like a strike of lightning. The figures, faceless blobs of static and shadows, sunk their blades into her again and again, cutting and slicing and tearing. They carved imprecise cuts from her limbs, peeled away skin, split her open like a flower every time the incision sealed shut. Their hands were uncaring, entitled, handling her like a pig in a butcher’s shop. It was not an unfamiliar feeling.
Nothing about this is real, none of this is real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it can’t hurt you, it’s not real—
The shadows were unusually chatty today, more so than usual, their voices nothing but static that barely formed coherent words, but she could make out minor chunks of a conversation spoken in cold, emotionless tones.
“... The subject...”
“... A little above the daily quota...”
“... Production rates need to increase…”
“Enough.” A voice cut through the white noise, commanding attention and as cold as the blades that sliced through her. “I’m not paying any of you to show weakness.”
There was a vital distinction between a vivisection and a dissection, one that one would assume professionals would know about. Dr. Lector Caro, a cold, sadistic, ruthless old man, hand-picked by Urbanshade for his “unique” experimentations, unorthodox techniques, and willingness to kiss ass like ass has never been kissed before, was anything but a professional. If someone needed something vivisected or amputated without anesthesia or a squeamishness for gore, they would retrieve Caro, and he, without fail, would gladly display his disregard for life and his cruel methodicism with a blade.
Needless to say, Aster and Caro were already quite familiar with each other. More familiar than she would have liked to be.
“You don’t have to pretend, Z-777-7.” The doctor’s cruel voice sliced through the static devouring her senses, as precise and ruthless as the hand handling the scalpel. The light glinted off two metal fingers, and his steel blue eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he smiled down at her. “We have been working together for how many years now? I can tell when you’re still conscious.”
Aster no longer entertained the doctor’s mockery, as conversations with him were often one-sided even if she did feel like talking, but she did acknowledge his presence with a shift of her eyes, turning her gaze to him.
“I know your kind’s game. You think you can just outlast us, don’t you.” Caro chuckled, a hollow sound that matched the sharp pang of the scalpel being pushed deeper into her gut. “Your predecessors thought so, too, and look what happened to them.”
The white door re-appeared, this time looming in the back of the room as it spread its infection across the walls. The pupils of those dozens of eyes dilated with each inch it gained, the pulsing within the walls growing faster and louder as the hot breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. The black roots spread around her limbs and reached up her neck, caressing her cheek. The thing inside of her shifted violently. She wondered if Caro and his workers could see it.
“I know you are hurting. The mind can lock everything away under fake memories and forgetfulness, but the body will always remember.” Metal fingers played with a lock of her hair, those cold eyes bearing down on her with a cruel, yellow-toothed smile. The shadows around her did nothing, only continuing to reach into her and rip her open. “And I think it is quite the privilege to get to be the one to remind you, the Antichrist of all things, of that.”
Her silence warranted another rough stab through the stomach, and she could imagine the wrinkled corners of that scarred mouth twisting into an irritated scowl as her body jerked. The door was breathing down Caro’s neck, creaking open to reveal a throbbing hall of wallpaper and flesh behind wooden teeth. The doctor did not seem to notice, or if he did, he did not care.
“You may think the stoic, silent act is working, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. You’ll break eventually, and this blasted dependence on the Banlands can finally end. You will be our key to conquering the lands of death, and then perhaps, if our ambitions allow, Death itself.”
The door exhaled, blasting her with fetid breath.
“And they always break in the end.”
A vision came to her then. She could see a wife strapped to a table, eyes teary and wide with fear and heartache and betrayal. She could still see a child, or what was once a child, floating in a tube and hooked up to wires and sensors. Nothing but ego and arrogance and pettiness, spiraling down into a cold, empty pit.
Dr. Caro’s cruelty, for all his venom and bitterness and sadism and incompetence hidden beneath a thick veneer of arrogance and professionalism, was what she deserved, and he was the only one who gave her what she deserved.
But is that really what you want?
Do you even remember what it’s like to want?
Aster stared up at Caro for a moment, and then she flatlined.
The cold wood of the altar pressed against her back, soaking through the thin fabric of her shirt and shorts. The church’s high ceiling loomed high over her, making the voice of her guardian echo even as he spoke low and reverent to the people gathered in the pews.
The pipe in her arm sent another sharp ache up into her shoulder, but she held her breath and pushed down the small hiss that threatened to escape her, eyes drifting to the pile of plastic packs next to her. Dr. Caro stood off to the side, taking notes in the shadows untouched by the church windows. He looked up and met her gaze, and she swallowed as she caught the flicker of a predator’s grin dance across his face.
As her guardian continued to preach to the gathered crowd, panic and confusion slowly took hold of her mind, the room spiralling above her as she tried to keep her focus on the ceiling. She had just been at school, she had just made it home, it was Thursday, it was not church time, church time was on Sundays, and even then she was usually not invited. No one wanted the local parasite on “consecrated ground”, whatever that meant, so why was she here now?
What are they going to do to me?
But she did not voice that, swallowing down the words and keeping quiet even as the ache came again. Even in her young age, it had been driven into her instinct like a nail to remain quiet and still. If she did that, there was a much higher chance of the danger passing without noticing her.
As usual, her guardian addressed the crowd with grandeur and revelry that sounded alien on his tongue, making promises that made her stomach turn and her body itch to flee from the church and into the woods and not look back. The painted eyes of angels above offered no solace and no mercy, their lifeless gazes merely watching on in cold, uncaring silence.
She was, effectively, alone.
The first pack was drawn through a thick needle, given to a woman who had previously been complaining about early-set arthritis in her hands. The second to a man with bad knees. The third to a mother whose son caught a cold.
“They’ll like you if you do this. You just have to be good and let it happen.” That was what the doctor had told her the day before. “Just let it happen, and you’ll eventually have friends. Friends like people who can help them.”
So she ignored the painful pinch of the needle, ignored the redness of the puncture, ignored the bags that were filled over and over again with rich, wine-red blood. She bit her tongue and didn't make a sound, keeping her gaze up to the mural painted on the ceiling.
Just be good. Just be good and they will like you back.
Hours of pain and panic later, the last of the churchgoers took their leave, leaving her feeling light-headed and her arm aching where the needle had pierced the vein. Removal triggered a sharp pinch and she let out an involuntary hiss through her teeth.
“Stop being so overdramatic,” He growled, thumbing through the cash in his hands. “You won’t die.”
The girl carefully pushed herself into a sitting position, careful not to put too much weight on her bad arm. Her shoulderblades ached, having been pressed against the hard surface of the altar for so long, and she blinked as her head spins. Her eyes burned in the dry air of the church.
“... Can I—?” She wanted to ask for a band-aid, but a steel-green glare snapped in her direction and her mouth quickly pressed shut, the question withering and dying as she shrunk down under the baleful gaze of her male guardian. The shadow He casts fell over her as he walked up to her, posture tall and intimidating, re-emphasizing the power behind the bulk.
“Do I need to remind you that a parasite doesn't get to make requests?”
Parasite. The girl was more than familiar with that word. Her guardians called her that often and it had caught on with the neighborhood kids years ago, and she’d come to recognize that it was not meant in a nice way.
“Parasite”. Something that lived at the expense of something else. Something that took and took and hurt in the process. Something that ate you from the inside out, leaving a hollow husk behind. Something foul. Something dangerous.
Something wicked.
“... No…” she mumbled quietly, and flinched when He took a loud step closer, the impact echoing through the church.
“Speak up,” He ordered sharply.
“... No, sir.”
He glared daggers into the top of her head for a few seconds, as he always did, before scoffing and walking away and even then she didn’t dare breathe until his shadow faded out of the church. The doctor followed, and she heard them start to talk, an adult conversation that she was too young to understand.
She looked up, swinging her legs over the edge of the altar. The puncture wound from the needle was still red, the skin around it slowly turning black and blue. She tentatively brushed a finger over it, and stifled a small whine at the sharp throb that followed. The warm light of magic hour had never felt chillier and she swallowed the lump in her throat, goose flesh travelling up her arms as she glanced back at the shadows in the furthest corner.
The door was still there, leering out from the shadows. It had been showing up ever since the first time she had given out blood, always just barely out of sight yet close enough that its presence could be felt, and even as a child, such an innocuous object filled her with a sense of dread. Then she blinked, and it was gone.
The stained glass window cast a kaleidoscope of color down onto her as the setting sun shone through it, the black eyes of the Virgin Mary, unseeing and cold. She looked down at the wound on her arm again, and felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
They’ll finally start to like you. You won’t be a parasite. You won’t just be the Antichrist anymore.
He and the doctor conversed in the entry arch of the church, oblivious to the unseen watcher that had been there moments before. The doctor’s gaze swept onto her, and the satisfied smile on his face made her throat tighten. She had never liked him, even if she didn’t know why. Something about him just made her feel bad.
I don’t want to be any of those things.
Goodbyes were exchanged and she crawled into the backseat of her guardian’s truck, leaning back against the seat with a faint sigh. By then, the sun had set enough that the inside of the church was now swamped in darkness, the street lights being the only thing to cast light on the stained glass. From her seat, it looked like a dark and twisted castle.
As the truck pulled out of the church parking lot, she found herself looking back. In the darkness beyond the massive wooden doors, she thought she saw something, or someone, move within the murk, just beyond where the light reaches.
In the brief moment before the car turned the corner and the church vanished from sight, she thought it looked like a woman with a white dress.
Let them destroy you.
The hum of fluorescent white lights and the metallic screech of saws and the cracks of bone sunk their nails into her head until they joined the chorus of white noise that screamed in her skull every time they split her open. The wet crunch of teeth being pulled and the squelch of hands inside of her were the accompaniment, ripping things out and pushing sharp things in and cutting with cold blades that split her open like a flower, pipes running red as her life was drained gallon after gallon. They snapped her apart and left her in pieces, knowing she would only stitch herself back together for them to break all over again.
Let them use you.
The smell of flowers filled her nose until it suffocated her. A chanting in a language so old it twisted the cadence of the voices speaking rose into the frigid air, all figures bowing in reverence to a presence she could feel, a horrid, burning, twisted presence. The twisted dagger gleamed bright in the amber glow of candles and flashes like the eyes of a hungry beast as it dropped down, piercing her like an arrow. She saw it then, the starless maroon sky, the bleeding moon, the bodies collecting in the dark water. The horned figure, the one with eyes of the brightest scarlet and a scathing grin, grinned, a hungry predator’s grin
Let them devour you.
Teeth tore through her hospital gown and into hot, tender flesh, indulgence and lust and desire and hunger burning blistering hot against her body. Hands groped and ripped at her with reckless entitlement, sinking dirty nails into her like claws, as if her body belonged to no one but them. The sick scent of hunger and sweat brushed heavy and wet against her, leaving red behind. Something inside of her wanted to scream, but her mouth and throat remained tightly shut.
This is what you were born for.
The visions were never just of flesh. Every cruelty done in this place passed in front of her eyes whenever someone entered the room, the blood on their hands a stark red and their neutral expression giving way to flickering scribbles and static explosion of twisted smiles. Some were simply apathetic, while others were desperate, and she could understand that. Desperation could make a monster out of any man, she supposed. But it was those who relished in the pain, whose lingering visages of gleaming tools and terrified eyes seen through a lens of ecstasy, sadism and control, that made her skin crawl whenever she saw them. Only Urbanshade would think to hire such monsters and have the mind to call the people whose lives they ruined, guilty or innocent, inhuman.
No one is coming to save you.
The crystalline glasses gleamed with the rich dark red of her blood. Pairs guided each other out onto the dance floor to celebrate her desecration. They had adorned her in white fabrics and golden chains and flowers and made her stand like a statue, pretty and powerless. They kissed her hands and forced themselves onto her lips, touched her and spoke to her like she had done them a kindness in letting them. Some were more openly cruel, weaving venom into their whispers or forcing it down her throat until she could only choke on it in the aftermath, but the worst were those whose lips oozed with sugar and whose hands felt like centipedes crawling over her skin. But she could never stop them from touching her. Her only order was to sit still and let it all happen, and she knew better than to defy an order.
No one wants to.
As the days passed, the thing inside of her continued to move. It filled her vision with flesh and eyes and whispered dark things in her ears, the roots digging deeper into her body and rotting itself within her. It could be patient, as all good predators were, and it knew just like she did that no one could see it, for it was not the kind of parasite that could be removed with a simple procedure. It could wait until she was skin and bones. It could wait until she was too weak to fight its call anymore. When all her flesh was stripped from her bones and her blood ran thick and black, it would still wait. It would only be when she begged for it on her hands and knees, a pathetic, snivelling thing, that it would finally make her disappear.
No one cares enough to try.
She was many things. A spectacle. A symbol. A reminder of who was the true apex predator here, thousands of miles from the safe and familiar, in territory no one was brave enough to enter. A scapegoat for those who wished to exact their heartless desires upon those who could not fight back. An excuse for the dark indulgence that happened deep within the underbelly of this industrial hell. Nothing. Nothing but a key for a lock. Nothing but food for hungry bellies. Nothing more than a tool, a plaything, a punching bag.
“Antichrist”. “Panacea”. “Parasite”. “Curse”. She couldn’t think of a time where they’d ever called her anything else. “Aster” was what her mother called her, just so she could have a name to give when people bothered to ask about the runty child stuck to her side. Those were the flowers, her mother had said, that she would carry to her final destination the day Urbanshade finally decided to get rid of her, when she finally gave them what they were searching so tirelessly for.
Death became a more desirable outcome with each passing day, and this new stasis that she found herself stuck in felt like the universe’s best joke. Truly, humor had peaked when it gave suicidal ideations to something that could not stay dead. The universe had once again proven itself to be the cruelest jokester of them all.
Aster rode the ebb and flow of being the butt of this new joke. It wouldn’t be the first time, and she doubted it would be the last. Urbanshade would cook up some new way to torture her, and she would have to deal with it, and then it would fail, and then they would get angry and beat her up, and then the cycle would start again. Either they would fall first, or they would find a way to kill her and end this cycle of stupidity forever.
She only needed to outlast them, if they didn’t eat her alive first.
The Overseers were a rare sight among Urbanshade staff, but the Overseers within the Blacksite were surprisingly involved in the affairs of the facility. They were known for their strength and cunning, silver-tongued and eagle-eyed, always watching, always seeing, never missing whatever happened within the walls of their respective divisions. Between the doctors and an Overseer, many would choose the doctors when it came to the question of whose ire would be easier to survive.
So when an Overseer called you in for a personal meeting, you didn’t question and you didn't complain. You just took what you needed to bring to them, straightened yourself out, went to their grand offices, sat in those chairs, and kissed ass like you never kissed ass before.
Aster had never been good at kissing ass.
For the past ten years, she had met with the Blacksite Overseers many times, far more than most could brag about. Sure, it was only so they could scope out the company’s secret magnum opus (and know their well-earned blood money was going into a worthy cause), but it was something to break up the tedium of her daily rituals, so when she was suddenly called in by the Overseer of the Lower Decks, she felt genuinely curious.
The Lower Decks Division didn’t have an Overseer.
And so she found herself standing before the sliding mechanized door that would lead her into the previously unused office. It was surprisingly close to her chamber, closer than she would have thought it to be. The Lower Decks were the smallest sector of the Blacksite from what she had managed to gather, but she had assumed it would be big enough that the walk to the Overseer’s office would be longer.
“Come in,” said a voice, and the door slid open with a mechanical thunk. The guard at her side nudged her with his gun, and she stepped through the threshold.
The office was smaller than expected, dusty and dimly-lit with a shelf for books and an old couch that looked like it was one puff of air away from crumbling into dust. A bowl of what she assumed were once mints was set on a small coffee table, and the desk was small and plain, a far cry from the mahogany marvels of wood-crafting that the others had.
The Overseer’s desk was devoid of any accolades or monuments to any wealth, bearing only a few small piles of papers, a cup with several pens and pencils and a site phone. However, there were two items that could be personal in nature; a picture frame of a young girl and a man with glasses and bright brown eyes, and a white mug with “Let’s Keep The Dumbfuckery To A Minimum Today” printed on the front in black calligraphy.
Aster’s gaze drifted higher, and her eyes finally fell on the Overseer.
The woman sitting at the desk was dark skinned and had short, black hair barely touching her shoulders. Her Overseer coat hung over said shoulders like a pseudo-cape, but that was just about where the formality ended. Instead of a fancy dress or decorated uniform like the men, she was dressed in a dark grey tank top and black pants, a rose quartz pendant hanging from her neck as she put the file down and finally looked up. Her eyes were a startling rich pink, stone-hard and intelligent as they briefly shifted up to meet Aster’s gaze directly. She quickly averted her eyes.
“Overseer Brynn,” the guard said, nudging Aster forward. “I have brought the subject in for questioning.”
“Thank you, Guardsman Adler. You may be excused.”
Calm, concise, professional, and leaving no room for argument. Aster found herself pausing in the presence of such a voice. The guard did as well, sputtering slightly before he seemed to gather his composure, standing a little straighter.
“Ma’am, Dr. Caro—”
“Dr. Caro is no longer in charge of Project Panacea or this subdivision,” the Overseer interrupted, and the guard’s confidence visibly withered as a sharp glare was thrown his way. “You have permission from me to take your leave.”
“But even so,” The guard argued, which was also startling, “Leaving you alone with a test subject feels rather irresponsible—”
“I can handle it, Guardsman,” the Overseer insisted sharply, “You have my direct permission to excuse yourself and return to your former post. Z-777-7 is not a threat to me.”
Aster half-expected the guard to argue more, but instead, he nodded mutely and walked out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock snapping into place, leaving her to stand at the top of the stairs, waiting to be called forward. The Overseer kept going over the document, almost as if she didn’t care that she was there at all.
“You don’t have to stay there, or would you rather conduct this interview from the top of the stairs?”
It sounded like an invitation to speak, but Aster knew better than to take it. Overseers were known for their skills with words, and many had a penchant for cruelty that could rival even their subordinates. She would see the true colors of this stranger in due time, but today, she was not in the mood to poke the proverbial bear.
“Please have a seat.” The Overseer gestured to the empty chair in front of her desk, undeterred by her guests’ silence. “This is not a formal interview, don’t worry.”
Weighing her options, Aster decided that going against an Overseer’s orders would bring more consequence than following her own gut, and took a few tentative steps forward. The Overseer didn’t say anything, simply watching and waiting, perhaps even observing. She fully descended down the small set of stairs, walked across the office, and carefully lowered herself into the chair. It was unpleasantly scratchy through her gown and she shifted uncomfortably, careful to not pin her own tail between her rear and the seat.
“I am Overseer Kira Brynn,” the Overseer said politely, carrying the same formal tone as the other, “Starting today, I will be taking over the operations of Project Panacea for the foreseeable future.” Her somewhat begrudging tone was preferable to the sick enthusiasm Caro had shown years ago. “Would you prefer to go by name or number?”
“I don’t have a name, ma’am.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am, this place has already aged me enough.” The Overseer’s voice lacked any humor, but there was also a lack of coldness as she regarded Aster with a look of calm stoicism. “Just call me Kira.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just going to call you Aster, if you’re okay with that. It’s less syllables that way.”
“Okay.”
Kira regarded her oddly, but it was brief, and she leaned back in her seat, opening a thin file and flipping through some of the papers inside.
“So you’re the Antichrist, huh?” Kira hummed, intrigued. “I’ll be honest, you’re not what I expected at all.”
“I’ve been told that I’m underwhelming for one, yes. I’m not quite what one would imagine when they think ‘Man of Sin’, ‘The Profane and Wicked Prince’, ‘The False Prophet’, to name a few. I’m about as good at weaving a false prophecy as I am at holding a job.”
“You’re pretty chill for the literal Antichrist.”
“I know better than to act out in front of an Overseer.”
“Well, you seem to have a clean record,” Kira said, looking down at the file, then back up to Aster, “apart from... biting off two of Dr. Caro’s fingers. And the twenty escape attempts, all ending in temporary termination.”
The memories came flooding back. She had been ten years younger and a lot more ornery back then, and Caro hadn’t even asked before sticking his fingers where they didn’t belong. Put your hand in the monkey cage, and expect to get bit, son.
The escape attempts… Well, how else was she supposed to react, after that horrible first day?
But she could not say that to an Overseer’s face.
“I choked,” was all Aster said in response, even throwing in a shrug.
“Uh-huh.” Judging by her tone, the Overseer didn’t believe such a claim, but if she doubted Aster’s defense, she didn’t let it show. “It also says here that you were born anomalous, but your powers didn’t manifest until your first death during the 2013 murder case. The one involving the college student.”
“Sebastian.” It came out stiff and quiet. “His name was Sebastian.”
The Overseer paused, looking her over, and then settled back in her seat, unperturbed by the sudden change in tone.
“Sorry. I guess I should’ve expected that it would be a sore topic for you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you feel like continuing, or should we schedule this for another time?”
Usually, the other Overseers would have tried to push her more, always shouting when she spoke too quietly and berating and barraging her with demands and questions and criticisms. One had even struck her when she made a comment about human trafficking.
“... I can keep going,” she said.
“Okay.” Kira closed the folder, leaning back in her chair like she was about to take a nap. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
What do you want to know? That I’ve killed three-hundred people? That I don’t want to be here and hate every single one of you? That I’m just a sacrificial avatar for an evil devil house? Or do you just want the lies that everyone else wants to hear?
“Well…” Aster looked down at her hands, which had begun to worry at her gown. “My biomass heals people. People also go crazy when they’re around me and then they eat me, but they haven’t died yet so maybe they have to do violent stuff to me for it to actually work? I dunno.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what you were thinking when they told you I’m the Antichrist, but I don’t think I have, like, world-ending powers or anything—”
“I am aware of all that, don’t worry. I’ve read the assigned materials.” Kira politely held up a hand to silence her. “I meant you as a person. Who exactly am I working with?”
Whatever pre-rehearsed answer Aster had died on her tongue, because that was a question Aster had never been able to perfect an answer to. All Overseers only wanted to hear what they wanted to hear, which could be boiled down to complete submission and complicity. She could do that, that was second nature by this point, but coming up with answers on the fly… That was a much more demanding task.
“I’m company property,” Aster replied, keeping her voice as level and hollow as she could, “I don’t have dreams, or goals, or desires that aren’t related to the well-being of Urbanshade.”
“Am I talking to you?” Kira asked, twirling her pen around her finger. Her eyes gleamed with a rare kind of skepticism that the other Overseers lacked. “Or am I talking to Mr. Shade?”
“Me.”
“Bullshit.”
Shit, this Overseer is actually smart, Aster thought.
“I’m not lying, Miss Brynn,” she continued, hoping her confusion would not betray her. If this was some kind of test, then she was not about to let this newcomer see her fail. “My loyalties have been to the company for as long as I’ve been aware of my servitude to them. I did not know anything beforehand, but now that I do—”
“I am not questioning your loyalties,” Kira interrupted, still calm and composed, “I just want to form my own opinion about you.”
Ah, fuck it, I’ve got nothing to gain or lose here. Might as well just play into her game.
“... I like music, I guess.”
“Okay.” Kira nodded. “What kind? I’m kind of a rock person myself.”
“I just liked what I thought sounded good to me. Never really had a favorite genre.”
“Anything else?”
“I guess I liked drawing. Playing in the woods behind the house. Animals.” She shrugged, feigning indifference. “There wasn’t much to do with my life, all things considered.”
“How was your childhood?”
“Oh, you know,” Aster said, shrugging. “Loving parents.”
A bottle shattered against the side of her face, carving through her skin and leaving bloody cuts behind. A cold voice shouted that she was not his child, not hers, not anyone’s. A cold, tense silence barely filled by the talk on TV.
“You’ve ruined me.”
“Lots of friends.”
A hand roughly tangled itself in her hair, painfully yanking at her scalp as she was face-first into the mud, cruel jeering filling her ears as they threw their cruel playground names at her. Side-eyed glares followed her in the halls as shoulders pulled away. The fever pitch of a chase, trees flying past her as hands grabbed at her arms and the back of her shirt.
“A promising future.”
Rejection slip after rejection slip. Her counselor said in a disinterested voice, “You’ll be lucky to be a fast food worker at this rate.” She believed him. Soon, the only thing she could trade for payment was her body, because no one seemed to want anything else, and even then they always said that they were unimpressed. Maybe this was her calling. It seemed to be the only one that worked.
“You know,” Aster said, shrugging nonchalantly, “Typical kid and teenager stuff. I can’t think of anything particularly interesting.”
A pause.
“Well, I did hear about that big fire, but I left a little before then. Only heard about it a few days after I…” Ran away. “After I started getting my footing.”
“I see.” Kira looked back at the file, clearly not believing Aster’s brief description of her life, and then picked up her mug and took a sip. “So you never had any friends at all?”
Harsh.
“Sebastian was my friend.”
Kira choked on whatever she was drinking in her mug. Thankfully, she didn’t spit it onto Aster’s face.
“P-pardon?”
“I was friends with Sebastian, back in college.”
“Like, the kid from the murder case? You knew him personally?”
“I did. He was a good guy.” She cast a look up at Kira, eyes narrowing. “He never hurt me. He’s the only person who never wanted to, no matter what his shitty, backstabbing lawyer said on the news—”
“I was not accusing him of such. Just making sure.” Kira’s voice did not lose its calm tone, but something in her eyes seemed different. Softer. Maybe pity? “With no accusations attached, how close were you with Sebastian? Were you two just friends or—?”
Yeah, no, not delving into those memories right now.
“Never went further than just being friends,” Aster said quickly.
“I see,” Kira said with a voice that indicated that she did not, in fact, see. “Well, I will keep this in mind for decisions regarding your future within this program.”
“Why are you asking me all this?” Despite Kira’s convincing act, Aster couldn’t beat down the growing sapling of doubt that sunk its roots into her stomach. Things were going way too smoothly. “You really shouldn’t be making small talk with the experiments you’re about to oversee.”
“It’s quite simple, actually. As you’ve seen, the Lower Decks is, pardon my French, in fucking shambles. Its previous Overseer was an irresponsible idiot who cared more about indulging in his own sadism. Dr. Caro is too unorthodox, unpredictable, and way too ambitious. Their combined ‘leadership’ has brought this project to near-ruin. If Caro continues to be enabled, this project will fail, and we’ll all be terminated. I’m here to clean up the mess, and I’ll need your help to make that happen.”
“So I’m just a pawn in your attempt to get Caro out and take control?” Aster raised an eyebrow. Kira’s expression did not betray any guilt, but it did not deny the accusation.
“Caro never held authority or an official Overseer rank, and he no longer holds authority over Project Panacea. His behavior has been detrimental to the project’s success, and by proxy, the success and reputation of the Lower Decks. Besides, I don’t think you want him around any more than I do.”
Do I? Aster thought about it for a moment. Well, I wouldn’t complain if he somehow vanished…
“You got me there, but what about your actual boss?” The room temperature shifted with the topic, a deep chill creeping into the air and brushing along Aster’s neck. “Do you really think someone like him will just… let you do this?”
“Mr. Shade is a man who is business-oriented first. He doesn’t need to be happy about it, just satisfied with the spoils, and if he’s happier with what comes of this then what Caro’s been churning out, then it’s all the better for everyone. I am new as an Overseer, but I am more than familiar with how the Lower Decks work, believe me.”
“You don’t understand, Urbanshade won’t—”
“I know how Urbanshade works,” Kira interrupted, and to Aster’s surprise, huffed a soft, hollow laugh, pointing at one of her eyes. “Do you really think my eyes were always pink? But I also know that they are growing desperate for your immortality, and at this point, even they know that they have nothing to lose in trying something new. That desperation is the key to our success.”
Aster did not reply to that, simply looking down at her hands.
“Starting tomorrow, harvest rates will be reduced to twice a week. I have also been thinking of selecting a personal guard since the ones down here are so fucking incompetent—”
“Isn’t this going against the entire purpose of the project, though?”
“The mission of the project is primarily to find a way to gain immortality from your biomass,” Kira said.
“Tell that to everyone else. Nothing’s changed ever since I’ve gotten here. They take stuff, but I don’t even know if they use it or not.”
“Another reason why Caro needs to remain out of this office. Ever since Caro took control, the quality of the harvested materials has shown signs of contamination, probably due to the small windows of time between harvests, as well as the conditions you’re kept in. Urbanshade is wealthy, but that’s just about all it has going for it. They act without thinking, and their cruelty overshadows their intellect considerably. A waste of immense potential, and an inconvenience for the man in charge of the operation.”
“So what you’re saying is that they’re stupid.”
“I would’ve used a stronger word, but yes, I am saying that they are stupid.”
Oh thank god, Aster thought, Someone finally said it.
“Throwing in a personal guard will also help me monitor you and ensure that Caro does not attempt to meddle with the rehabilitation process or act out of line. I already have an argument to bring up with Mr. Shade when I deliver the proposal, and I will be personally looking for suitable candidates.”
Aster stared down at the desk, her mind racing a mile a second. What Kira was offering her, experiments on the Upper Decks could probably only dream of, if the woman was being genuine. The only way out of the nightmare of being an LR-P was a promotion to MR-P status, and even that wouldn’t promise one’s safety. By all accounts, she should’ve been grateful for such an opportunity, but…
“Why are you doing this for me?”
Kira blinked, but there was no anger on her face as she processed the answer given, only confusion.
“I thought you would be happier about this offer, Aster.”
“I don’t deserve something like this.”
“What makes you think that?”
“People have died because of me,” she said quietly, “I caused Sebastian’s death. Even if I’m not a very good Antichrist, I’m still, well, the Antichrist. I know Urbanshade’s whole thing is defying the Almighty, but—”
“You’re not the one who killed Sebastian, the justice system is to blame for that.” Kira leaned forward, crossing her arms in front of her. “What’s happened to you down here doesn’t erase the fact that you’re still a person—”
“But I’m not a person. I’m just a blood bank, and even if it’s not the most dignified purpose in the world, it’s…” It’s the only thing they’ve left me with. “... It’s at least a purpose. And if you change things the way you want to, you’ll only get hurt, or they’ll twist you onto their side eventually. Trust me.”
The silence was only broken by the muffled rumble of Trenchbleeder Lucy’s thunderous steps as she passed by, dust raining down from the ceiling as she rumbled through the still waters of the Let-Vand Zone. Kira looked up, mouth opening as if she was about to say something, but then her eyes drifted to the space behind Aster, and her expression turned sour.
“Ah, shit…”
“I don’t believe that conversing with Z-777-7 is your jurisdiction, Brynn.”
A cold, leathery hand rested on her shoulder, and Aster swallowed the disgusted jolt that shot down her spine. Dr. Caro’s crisp white lab coat flowed into the corner of her peripheral as he stood tall and proud for a man in his mid-70s, looking down on both women with an air of entitled superiority. His eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses as they fell on Kira, and Aster got the distinct impression that he did not like his new superior.
“It’s Overseer Brynn to you, Doctor,” Kira said, her calm politeness shed in favor of cold diplomacy. She returned Caro’s half-lidded look, her posture neither sagging in submission or tensing in defiance. “And I don’t believe barging into my office falls into your jurisdiction, either.”
“I was just worried about you. I know this new position can be stressful for a young, inexperienced mind such as yours—”
“Spare me the ass-kissing, old man." Kira snapped sharply, cutting him off, “We both know how you feel about me.”
The false air of respect died instantly. Dr. Caro’s grip on Aster’s shoulder tightened painfully, and she winced as dirty nails dug through the thin layer of fabric between them and her skin. Caro’s attention, however, remained on Kira.
“This project will be a waste under someone like you. You are too forgiving, too passive. I don’t know what Mr. Shade sees in you.” The old man snorted. “Especially since you’re not Urbanshade material in the slightest.”
“I think this project will be better under me, actually. Your methods have brought all progress to a snail’s crawl at best, and let’s not forget who’s sitting at the Overseer’s desk.”
“This thing’s sole purpose is to ensure the longevity of this company. It is what it was born for, and if we have to rip it apart to succeed, then so be it. I am willing to make the necessary sacrifices to see Mr. Shade’s vision through, even if it comes with… setbacks.” Aster bit down a hiss as Caro’s nails broke her skin. “And I won’t let my hard work be ruined because the new Overseer is too soft to see these visions through.”
“Oh, I'm anything but soft, Caro.” The Overseer’s tone was sharper than Dr. Caro’s sharpest tools. “I just so happen to have ideas that will actually yield results. Don’t think I don’t know about your disaster with Mr. Sutcliff last week. What did he tell you? ‘If this is the best you can offer, then I would say that it’s not the only one that should be terminated’?”
“This is a matter of life and death, but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected a Syndicate girl to understand the grand scale of Urbanshade’s glorious ambitions. I would’ve thought someone from that lot would at least understand what is at stake here, but I guess my expectations were too high.”
Now that was news to Aster. “The Syndicate” was a name that had been thrown around a handful of times through the years, and from what she had managed to gather from context clues, they were some kind of rival organization that acted against Urbanshade, and judging by the ever-present tension surrounding the name, they were not an easy adversary to have.
Was Kira a traitor? That was the only way she could see Urbanshade granting someone who used to be affiliated with an enemy group a position of power. The thought made her heart sink a little.
And she seemed nice, too.
“And I expected a doctor of your intellect to know better than to act on his own greed instead of following Mr. Shade’s orders,” Kira replied without missing a beat, “But I guess I shouldn’t expect much from back-alley trash.”
Despite her changed opinions on her new superior, Aster nearly choked as Caro's face contorted into one of pure indignation, but his furious sputtering was ignored as Kira turned to her, nodding politely.
“Thank you for answering my questions, Z-777-7. I am looking forward to working with you towards actual betterment for humanity.” Her attention shifted back to Caro. “Tomorrow I will be implementing the new schedule for the harvests, and if I find out that you have gone against orders, I will have you demoted to being Z-317’s personal tank cleaner. Am I understood?”
“You don’t have the right to—”
“Am I understood.”
There was no room left for debate, and to Aster’s surprise, a hint of unease wormed its way into Caro’s expression as Kira continued to stare him down. He opened his mouth as if to attempt an argument, but her gaze intensified and he could only grit his teeth, lowering his head.
“Understood,” he choked out after a moment, “Overseer.”
Kira nodded, grimly satisfied, but before Caro could herd Aster out the door, she spoke up again.
“Wait.”
Aster paused, turning back, and when her gaze met Kira’s, the other woman seemed to relax, just a little.
“Urbanshade is well-equipped in dealing with the supernatural; they've been doing it for decades. But for the time being, focus on honing your abilities and recovering from harvests. Leave destroying Z-3 to us.”
If only it were that easy.
“I appreciate it, Miss Brynn, I really do,” Aster said, nodding in acknowledgement, “But you can’t destroy that thing. He won’t allow it.”
“Who?”
“I think you already know who.”
The two women stared at each other for a moment, and then Aster was dragged back out into the real world, the door closing behind her and leaving her alone with Dr. Caro.
The walk back to the chamber was done in silence, and it’s only when Caro and the guards left that she dared to let herself move of her own volition, turning onto her back to stare up at the darkness that went on forever.
Don’t get excited. She’ll figure out what you did soon enough, and she’ll be like everyone else. No one’s coming to save your ass.
But what if she does manage to pull it off? she wondered, What then?
Don’t be stupid, reason scolded, They’ll kill her if what she’s planning works. Besides, you know what will happen if they get what they want. Once they find that out, they’ll finally start finding ways to kill you, and then this will all be over.
She thought about the parking lot. She thought about the rain that collects in the dips in the asphalt soaking her socks. She thought about the flash of red in her vision and the explosion of pain in her back before numbness took over. She thought about the rain and the smell of dirt and death. The newspaper. The rain. The taste of alcohol. The rain. The sound of a door closing. The rain.
What would he think of me now? She stared up into the darkness, through to the ceiling that barred her from the rest of the Blacksite. What would you think of me now? Would you feel sorry for me again? Would you hate me for wasting the last of your time? For not fighting harder?
I promise I tried. I really, really tried.
But trying isn’t enough.
You know damn well that was never going to be enough.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to put the block back up, but it was too late to stop it. She drowned in the memories, the ones that made her throat tight even if she didn’t have any tears left to shed. Even if she never deserved it, even if the consequences ultimately outweighed the cons…
Don’t, she thought bitterly, her hand closing on the front of her gown. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself after you ruined his life.
It had been twelve years since she’d last seen his face, but it was all fresh and lingering like a newly-opened wound now, re-opened by the interview and growing bigger with each memory that passed through her mind. The absence had festered into a physical ache in her chest that made all the vivisections and beatings feel like a lover’s tender kiss by comparison. All the things she never got to say had laid dormant on the tip of her tongue, only silenced by the ingrained truth that she would never get to say them in the first place.
I’m sorry.
She thought of the dim glow of city lights through a small dorm window. She thought of the smell of pine trees and mountains that seemed to stretch along the distant horizon like the back of some great beast. She thought about the sound of the ocean that carried over the rooftops of houses, the ever-present tint of sea salt that hung in the air. She thought about the lake that flowed in from the sea, its crystal-clear waters splashing lazily against worn pebbles and exposed roots, the boardwalk creaking softly, the waves lapping against its supports like friendly puppies.
Thank you.
Black hair tangling in her fingers. Calloused hands that never hurt resting on her cheek in the dark. Songs by bands she’d never heard of blasting over a car radio as the wind blasted past her face, not loud enough to drown out the bass boom. The faintest taste of beer on her lips, something she never thought she’d miss so much. The crook of a neck where her face and head always seemed to fit perfectly, like it had been made just for her. A soft voice saying she had every right to live, singing in her ear to chase the shadows away. A smile that let her experience what Heaven probably felt like.
I love you.
Something crawled out of her throat, a soft hum of a song that had laid dormant in the back of her mind for years. The more she
You don’t have to feel the same.
For the first time in a decade, the quiet of the chamber was broken by the brittle whisper of song.